Collide Into You: A Romantic Gender Swap Love Story (4 page)

I had to hand it to him: Dillan was consistent. He wasn’t presenting a false front with me. He was being himself, and I could at least appreciate that, even if that meant he was a pig and a womanizer.
 

I cannot wait to summarize the last few days to Jon and Tanner in an e-mail.
 

Drying off and dressing in comfy clothes, I leave the bathroom. I’ll let Dillan clean the mirror. I refuse to touch it.

As soon as I open the door, though, a delicious aroma and the sounds of sizzling ground me to the spot.

Dillan is cooking something. Something that smells appetizing.

Keep going, Keira. Nothing to see over there in the kitchen as your roommate cooks what smells like barbecue chicken. You have a mouthwatering protein bar waiting for you in your bedroom. Plus, you have a 108-page Army manual to read before tomorrow morning.

“I was going to tell you that I had thawed out chicken,” Dillan says. His back is presented to me as he works a skillet. I can tell he’s wearing an apron. Its strings are tied low on his back.

If I don’t acknowledge him and keep moving, by the time he turns around, I’ll already be in my bedroom. He won’t know that I stopped dead in my tracks.
 

I make it only a few feet across the living room.

He turns around. “I made enough for you, Keira.” He looks at me, my bedroom, and takes note of whatever weird expression I have plastered on my face, and says, “You can eat it in your bedroom, if you want.”

Damn
.
 

Why’d he have to be so accommodating right now? Why couldn’t he have been a jerk? Now I feel bad about lying to him about Tanner’s invitation. Yes, Tanner invited me to attend the games this weekend, but he also asked me to extend the invitation to Dillan. Both of our names will be at the will-call window.

“I, uh,” I start, not knowing where to begin. Confess the lie or accept the food?

Dillan turns around and prepares one plate and then moves the skillet over the trash can.

“It’s okay,” he says neutrally. “I’m not good at remembering to eat leftovers, so I’ll just throw out the extra.”

“Wait,” I say. I don’t believe for one second that he’ll actually throw it out, and I know what he’s doing in order to get me to agree to eat his food. Guilt. He’s guilting me into eating it. “Don’t waste it,” I say through clenched teeth. It kills me to compliment him. “It smells good. Let me put this stuff away—” I indicate my uniform “—and I’ll be right out.”

I hang up my ACUs in the closet and grab an old, thin, long-sleeved shirt to wear over my tank top. I retrieve the unclassified Army manual from my backpack.
 

I’ll eat his chicken, but that doesn’t mean I have to talk to him.

“Ah, I see that you’re not the only one who has brought work home tonight,” Dillan comments as I sit down beside him at the small kitchen table. I notice he has a stack of folders on the chair next to his. He peeks at my manual. “Army Regulation Twenty dash One.
Inspector General Activities and Procedures
. Sounds fascinating, Sergeant.” He bites into the chicken.

“There’s no need to be rude just because you’ve never met a female who relies on her brain, rather than her looks, to get ahead.”

He smiles. “You are right, and I apologize. I’m sure that all the women I’ve dated with MBAs and PhDs would completely agree with you. Not to mention those who have interned with Senator Murphy or worked at the White House. Such bimbos, each and every one.” Dillan takes a victorious bite.

So he dates beautiful, smart, educated women. Big deal. He moved through them fast.
That
is the issue.
But what’s it to me?
I think. Oh, right, they write on bathroom mirrors.

“Perhaps you can clean Stacey’s PhD lipstick diploma off the mirror tonight?” I take a bite of his chicken and very nearly moan. Wow, it’s really good. Much better than a protein bar.
Don’t let on how good his cooking is, Keira
.

He watches me as I eat. He’s waiting for an indication if I like the food or not. His eyes narrow when I don’t satisfy his inquisitive stare. I finish the chicken and pull out the Army manual.

“Yeah, I can do that,” he says, standing. He takes my plate, stacks it on top of his, and puts both in the sink. I see him take something out from a lower cabinet. Dillan walks to the bathroom. Half a minute later, he returns. He shows me a red-stained paper towel. “All gone.”

I nod and say “Thanks” before diving back into the manual on Inspections, Assistance, and Investigations. Earlier, during my office call with Colonel Benson, he tossed the regulation manual at me and said, “Memorize this before you arrive tomorrow morning.” I spent the rest of the day, alone, in the general’s secure office. When it was time to leave, it took thirty minutes to find my way to the Metro entrance.

Dillan sits down next to me and opens a folder. The room is silent for a while.

“Thanks for dinner,” I say after reading and taking notes on the first three chapters. “The chicken wasn’t completely terrible.”

I feel him looking at me, so I glance up. A small smile forms on his lips. I’m blown away at its simplicity. I doubt he even knows he’s doing it. That big, fake grin he likes to give everyone is just too over the top. But this—this boyish smile—
almost
makes me smile back at him. Almost.

“You’re welcome.” He goes back to his reading and I think that that’s the end of the conversation until he says, nonchalantly, “Some of it is stuck in your teeth.”

I give him a black look, but he refuses to look away from his folder, so I grab my stuff, head to my bedroom, tune the TV to Tanner’s ball game, and finish reading the manual there.

Dillan

I
WATCH
K
EIRA
SEMI
-
STORM
away from the kitchen table. She isn’t really mad. She’s just not used to my personality. Which is fine. I’m not trying to impress her or flirt with her.

Not at all.

Not one bit. She’s Jon’s little sister. She’s way too stuffy and boring and unlike anyone else I’ve ever met.
She is completely off-limits.
 

I agreed to that weeks ago, after Jon called me up and asked for a favor. Asked if Keira could rent my second bedroom after her all-of-a-sudden reassignment to the Pentagon. After she settled in at her new job, if she didn’t like the arrangement, she could find a new apartment.

“Dillan,” Jon said over the long-distance phone call, “Keira is off limits. You know what I mean.” I knew what he meant, but if I remembered correctly, Keira was twenty-seven years old. A grown woman who could decide for herself if I was worth her time or not.

“Is your sister easy, Jon?” I had asked him. In hindsight, I realize it was the wrong question to ask.

“Let me be clear,” Jon said without any hesitation in his Navy Commander voice. “If I find out you’ve tried to, or successfully, seduce my sister, our friendship is over. She’s not your type. Do you understand?”

It irritated me to no end that Jon would mistrust me like that. Was the sentiment earned? Yeah, probably, but I thought Jon had known me long enough to know that I would never jeopardize our friendship over a quick hookup.

“Wow, ease up, buddy,” I said to my best friend. “I was only kidding. Sorry. I’ve met Keira before, remember? She’s totally not my type. If I recall correctly, she’s a by-the-book type, right? Besides, she’s a staff sergeant in the Army. She’ll totally kick my ass if I try anything with her.”
 

After that, the conversation took on a friendlier tone.

But now, as I think back on that phone call and how I’ve been acting toward Keira, I realize that if she tells Jon everything, then I might be in the market for a new friend. However, Keira didn’t seem like the type to complain to anyone. In fact, she was as sarcastic toward me as I was to her. I wasn’t used to that.
You could use a challenge
. That’s what Ellen said.

I sigh. The first challenge I want at the moment is the one with Johnson Brookshire and this new federal client. The second challenge I want is for LouAnn to succeed Johnson and for me to move up in rank with her.

Ignoring Keira is not a challenge. And ignoring her from here on out is what I plan to do. There. A plan. I’m good with those. Before I return to LouAnn’s documents on the federal client, I send a quick e-mail to Jon and Tanner.

I type: “Keira moved in this weekend, and she seems to have survived her first day at the Pentagon. All good here. I’d like to tell you that she sends her love, but she’s not one for conversation, and she’d probably accuse me of putting words in her mouth. So I’m sending my love, instead. Stay safe. Dillan.”

I check for missed calls or e-mails. I see one from Stacey and another one from a girl I met several weeks ago. I don’t click on either of them.

Returning to LouAnn’s documents, I immerse myself in her quirky sidebar notes. My boss comments on everyone and everything in such a non-politically correct manner that I can’t help but laugh out loud.
 

Everyone once in a while, I look at Keira’s closed door, as if by my looking at it, it will open up. But it stays closed. I can hear a slight murmur from the TV in her bedroom. Once the light goes out from under the door, I stop looking altogether.

Keira

I
T
’
S
DARK
WHEN
I
SLIP
outside. The cool air feels refreshing on my skin as I jog toward The Mall. I pass the Natural History Museum, cross the street, and hit the wide, gravelly running path that, at this point, is somewhat deserted.

Yesterday, I ran toward the Capitol and circled back, intending to run the full two-mile course, but with my move and all over the weekend, I was exhausted, and I didn’t run as far as I wanted to.
 

I didn’t feel any more rested this morning, not after reading all night and taking page after page of notes, but the idea of running—alone with my thoughts—invigorates me.

I pause long enough to pop in my white earbuds and press play on my playlist. Today, I head toward the Lincoln Memorial. When I run, I let everything go. Worry. Stress. Sometimes I think about work, or improving my run time, and sometimes I’ll do mundane tasks, like count the number of cars that drive opposite me or I’ll calculate the running ratio of women to men.

This morning, I’m trying not to think about two things: Dillan and the Army manual I read last night.

Something about sparring with Dillan was fun, and it shouldn’t be. I shouldn’t look forward to insulting him and I definitely shouldn’t look forward to seeing him in various stages of undress. But I did, and it didn’t help matters any when, this morning, as I’m tiptoeing through the living room, I noticed that his bedroom door was open.

He was alone. I had expected the leggy blonde to be tangled up in his limbs. What I found, instead, was a thin sheet
barely
covering his groin and thighs. The picturesque moonlight shafting through his large windows told me everything else I needed to know. He wasn’t wearing any clothes.
 

I swear it was as if he’d carefully arranged for it to be that way. It wasn’t like he knew I’d be up at five this morning to go for a run. So that thought was stupid.

The other stupid thought that I had was that instead of walking out the front door, I should walk into his bedroom, climb in next to him, and get a different sort of workout on.

Stupid, right? Idiotic.

He’d probably laugh me right out of his bed.

After thinking that thought, and the others, this morning, I huffed out of the living room, no longer trying to be quiet about my activities.
 

A smug smile of satisfaction grows on my lips at the idea that I disturbed his sleep as much as he disturbed me.

I pick up my pace as a song on my playlist is a faster beat, and race against an imaginary opponent.
 

I see every color imaginable on those jogging around me. Hot pinks. Flaming purples. Bright oranges. While running isn’t necessarily a dangerous sport, it is always a good idea to be visible in dim lighting.

After I’ve circled The Mall twice, the number of runners increases, and the sun makes an appearance. I strip off my T-shirt and tie it at my waist. The baby blue sports bra glows against my tan skin, and the color clashes with the electric green workout pants I’m sporting today.

There’s something about me, as a runner, that likes the idea of not matching whatsoever. Like it’s a way to be different
and
disobedient. I rarely coordinate my running outfits. I just grab a top, a bottom, socks, and shoes each morning, in the dark, and dress. Sometimes even the socks don’t match. Of course, if I’m running with an Army unit, I’m pretty much locked into wearing my physical fitness gear. Nothing exciting, different, or disobedient about Army attire.

With thoughts of Dillan long gone—okay, maybe I’m still thinking about those abs—I focus on the possibilities of what I may be investigating over the next few weeks.

If the documents were classified, then maybe it was a security leak, or maybe a special operation failed and the general needed an independent review of the concept of operations. But I didn’t have experience on those fronts. Not really. And I would have remembered hearing about any special forces’ loss of life.
 

Maybe the general himself was under some sort of investigation and I had been brought in to clear him of wrongdoing before it was made public.

That seemed more plausible. More and more generals these days are getting into trouble for stupid mistakes that they knew they shouldn’t have gotten involved in. Affairs. Sexual harassment. Travel fraud. Conduct unbecoming.

But those sorts of documents weren’t highly classified. In order for something to be classified top secret, or higher, it had to have grave consequences against our nation’s security if released to the public. However, until Colonel Benson allowed me to read all of the documents in the general’s secure office, I could only speculate.